Providence
by Pons Aelius
Summary: Katniss Everdeen sparked a revolution, but the legend of the Hunger Games went far beyond her. Return to the 68th Hunger Games, where District 10's Nomad Strickland fights for survival - and takes the first steps of a long-awaited destiny written in mystery, love, and blood. The Panem you know will pull back to reveal secrets written long ago.
1. From Dust

_**Author's Note: You all know the story of Katniss and Peeta: Their fight, their love, their revolution. But a world is more than the tale of a small, select handful, and of the countless stories of each legend there are so many tales that are not told. Welcome to Panem during the 68**__**th**__** Hunger Games, as an orphaned boy from District 10, Nomad Strickland, confronts a destiny long in the making. From the horrors of the arenas to the fires of love and war, follow the stories of the Hunger Games that were never told.**_

_**The Hunger Games, Panem, Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, Snow, and other established characters/locales/items are property of Suzanne Collins. Rated T for violence, blood/gore, themes, frightening imagery, and language. Part 1 of a 6-part series; some changes have been made for creative effect and relevance to the story. If you have questions, constructive criticism, suggestions, ideas, or otherwise, I'm always happy to listen. Additionally, some elements – such as the Capitol – will be slightly or moderately changed from canon sources, due to story elements that will be revealed over the course of the series. Hope you enjoy!**_

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"Is there any truth left in this world that I can believe in?"

"Truth? There isn't anything true about any of this."

* * *

_Variability is the spring of the universe. Change one variable and throw open the gates to an infinite frontier._

-Curie Franklin, _Foundations of Our Cosmos_

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**District 10 | Year of the 68****th**** Hunger Games**

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I didn't belong in this world.

Sure, I liked living; it beat the alternative. I wasn't dealt the best hand, however: My home of District 10, deep in the south of the lonely nation called Panem, was a wasteland. Dusty streets littered with weeds and dry grasses carved rough brown avenues between run-down wooden shacks and hovels, meandering throughout the majority of the town's residential wards like a trampled-on snake. Black rats the size of cats wandered about unhindered by the poor, hissing at raggedy-dressed, skinny children. The lucky workers in the district tromped off to the fields of the wealthy landowners; they would work twelve-hour days under the hot, beating sun and wide blue sky, looking after animal herds and baling hay.

Most people in District 10 weren't so lucky. The poor, the hungry, the impoverished – they eked out a living however they could, sweating in the torn and ripped clothes on their backs as they walked, heads down, to another day toiling in the meatpacking yards and slaughterhouse plants or mindlessly tending to the machinery and pens of the dairy factories.

It was a harsh life, all guided by the unyielding eyes of the white-armored Peacekeepers, District 10's security police. I didn't live as part of this district, however: I was no factory worker, no dairy processor, no field hand. I was just a 17 year-old orphan boy, trying to make the best of my days in a world I didn't belong in.

The summer sun beat mercilessly down on my head as I kicked a rock down a dusty street. I looked back over my head, glancing at a run-down longhouse spotted with broken, fractured windows. That was the building I'd lived nearly my whole life in, from birth until age 16: The orphanage, District 10's home for unwanted children such as myself. I left a year ago, happier to wander the streets as a loner and scavenger than live in that hellish dump for another second. The boys there didn't remember me after I left, claimed they'd never known me…but I still remembered them. I remembered their taunts, their insults, their aggression that bred a toxic atmosphere inside those wooden walls. If I could, I'd tear them all down and leave that orphanage in flames.

If it was my destiny to live on the fringes of this world, then I'd walk down that road on _my_ terms.

A throbbing pain in my arm reminded me that I wasn't well. I'd fought one of the orphan boys still living there this day after accusing him of evils he claimed he couldn't remember. He had a nasty punch: I didn't know what he'd done to me, but the growing blue lump in my left arm said it wasn't anything good. Fortunately, I was on good terms with the district's only physician, a middle-aged family man named Harper. I didn't know if there was some sort of doctor's creed that said to do no harm, but that man was as respectful and caring to anyone he came across – regardless of status – as I could imagine in District 10.

I kicked another rock out of my way as I tromped down the street, receiving an angry hiss from a nearby street rat for my disturbance. Few people were out and about, especially at high noon: Most were on the job, while the few who staggered around District 10 as unemployed stragglers – a category I grudgingly accepted membership in – waited out the hottest part of the day in whatever shade they could manage.

I made my way from the edge of town into the Square, the central quad and business hub of District 10, featuring over 20 brick-walled shops and storefronts in various states of disrepair. At the rear of the Square sat the Hall of Justice: A massive, three-story limestone behemoth sporting a monstrous crimson-and-gold flag of the Capitol. It was already dressed in the pageantry of the next day's big event: The Reaping.

Every year, 24 kids from across Panem – one girl and one boy between 12 and 18 for each of the country's 12 districts – were "Reaped" to compete in the Hunger Games, a gladiatorial blood sport for the Capitol's entertainment. Only one child would emerge alive, a victor to be rewarded for his destructive streak with material wealth and fame. Most families and children feared the event; as an orphan, it never fazed me. I saw only a thin line separating life and death, and while I preferred to stay on the living side, I had little to lose.

I pushed my way through the wooden doors of the Square's run-down clinic, sighing as the fan-cooled air of the interior washed over me. White walls and a squat black desk replaced the omnipresent dust outside. The clean interior was a welcome respite to the grime and dirt of the district.

A small, skinny girl in her early teens with brown hair and bright blue eyes sat at the desk, thumbing through the pages of a worn-out, dog-eared schoolbook. I walked up to her and banged on the desk with my fist, startling the girl and knocking the book to the ground.

"The doc around here?" I asked gruffly.

She looked at me unsurely, her eyes locked on mine as she pawed at her scruffy blue blouse. She was the doctor's only kid, and while I knew next to nothing about her, I'd suffered enough injuries in my year on the streets to be well-acquainted with the clinic.

"Maybe? Yes, no?" I said as she clammed up. "Jeez, girl, we're not deciding between your life and death here."

"Samantha," A warm male voice called the girl from the back of the clinic. "Let me talk to our guests. Go play outside, or something."

The girl – Samantha – threw me an uncertain look as she quickly snatched up her book and darted through the entrance hall's rear door. A blonde-haired man in his forties stumbled past her, wiping his hands on a cloth as he greeted me with a smile.

"I'm sorry about her," he said, tossing the towel on the desk and shaking my hand. "I tell her to go make some friends or play in the fields or something, yet even on her days off from school she's in here reading books. I can't understand it. Anyway, don't tell me you're hurt _again_, Nomad."

"Seems that way, Doc Harper," I said, raising my swelling left arm. "I, uh…engaged in a vigorous discussion with a colleague."

He took my hand, raising an eyebrow and expressing a mix of amusement and disappointment: "What kind of discussion leaves you with injuries like this?"

"The pugilistic kind."

"Ah, of course. I guess our…security…has better things to do than break up fights. Come on back; I'll fix that up best as I can."

I followed the doctor back into the heart of the clinic. Six beds of questionable construction lay out in the open, each sporting a thin, hole-pocked mattress with ratty bed sheeting. It was the best the doctor can do; frankly, it was a lot better than the hay-stuffed mattresses of the orphanage or the random, dirty places I'd slept over the past year. Two groaning men occupied a pair of the beds, one sporting a nasty head wound that bled through a white bandage. The place smelled like antiseptic and decay, making me wonder if someone had died there not too long ago.

"Just have a seat," Doc Harper pointed out an open bed as he retrieved some supplies off of a wooden chair. "Looks like a moderate sprain to the wrist. I'm gonna stick a splint on for now…although you should rest it for the next few days. Is there anywhere you can do that?"

"No. Well…no," I grunted as he wrapped up my arm. "It ain't like I'll go back to the orphanage and beg them to let me back in, and I don't exactly have the luxury of family or friends in the Ward."

The doctor frowns as he works: "So your plan is…to keep sleeping on the streets like everyone else in the Ward, all while nursing an injury? You're going to end up back here before long. I treat everyone who comes in…but jeez, Nomad; you'll bleed me dry. I gotta make a living."

"You don't _have_ to treat me. I ain't coming in here with guns like the Peacekeepers."

"Or, you could, you know, actually commit to doing something more with your life besides throwing rocks at rats and scavenging for a living. Your current plan's not a _good_ plan, Nomad."

"You should see me more often. I'm great at coming up with bad plans."

Doc Harper finished wrapping my hand up, throwing a towel on another bed and looking around sheepishly: "There isn't nobody at the orphanage to look after you until you find your own way of making a living? I mean, if you lived there 16 years, somebody has to be willing to help you out."

"Ain't nobody doing nothin' at the orphanage. If there's somebody looking after me, well…they're doing a pretty bad job of it."

He sighed and looked down at me with pitying eyes: "Look…I'm a physician; I'm supposed to help people. I can't give you any long-term accommodation, but if you want to stay on a bed for the night, I won't kick you out. Once the Reaping's done with tomorrow, you can figure out a better idea of what you're doing."

Sure. I supposed the doctor was right; I'd have to figure out _something_ to do with myself. Scavenging for food and anything else usable on the streets could keep a man alive, but I doubted I could do it forever. There _was_ a certain measure of freedom in being a vagrant: I'd finished school when I was 14, yet living on the edge of society meant I wasn't obligated to slave away for hours in a dirty, dangerous meatpacking plant or some other dead-end nightmare. I still had options. District 10 had a thriving black market and a number of other illegal activities that went on under the nose of the Peacekeepers. I knew of enough of the despicable types in the district – people like me – to eke out a living on the edge of the law. In some ways, living on the wrong side of the law was the most liberating profession one could have in the district, short of the landowners and shopkeepers. You couldn't tell me the average worker was happy with their lives, caught between starvation and malnourishment while working for wages that would barely pay for the ragged clothes on their backs. There was no hope to cling to in that kind of a vicious cycle.

What happy lives we lived in District 10.

"Thanks, doc," I nodded. "No sense turning down an offer like that."

"Don't worry about," he waved me off. "I know all you kids got the Reaping to worry about, from people like you to the landowners' kids. Heck, Samantha's been panicking about it for the last week, and it's only her second time. I might as well make someone's life easier."

"Hm," I rubbed my chin, staring down at my sprained wrist. "Well…at least she's got a parent watching out for her. The world needs more good people like you."

"Heh, yeah? Why's that?"

"Because of the bad people like me."


	2. The Games

_**A/N: Beginning in this chapter, we're going to start to see the differences from canon appear. Just an FYI to people who might go "whaaaaat" at a few things. The song incorporated in this chapter is my own creation.  
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_**Big thanks to Radio Free Death for the great review - I love constructive criticism, and it's awesome to hear what I can pin down better.  
**_

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I slipped out of the clinic in the early morning after the Harper family's breakfast a floor above me woke me up. There was no sense in sticking around: The doctor was a nice guy, but I wasn't interested in twiddling my thumbs and striking up a conversation in the clinic.

The sun was already up and beating down on the dusty street as I stepped outside into the Square. Peacekeepers marched about as workers arranged scaffolding and other elements necessary for the Reaping. Panem scattered the Reapings over the course of the day so the audience in the Capitol could watch them uninterrupted, and we were unlucky enough to have ours early in the morning. Our Hunger Games escort from the Capitol, a surly woman named Hecuba, would select District 10's two tributes at 10 AM, making our Reaping one of the first.

I coughed up a lung of dust and wiped sleep from my eyes, spitting up the grime I'd inhaled on the dusty street. No one ever got used to the dust in District 10.

No sense hanging around the Square. I'd be back when it was time for the Reaping, but I needed to take a walk to clear my head. I couldn't go around convincing people to take me into their homes every night. My only friend my age with a respectable home – a blonde-haired, feisty girl named Cheyenne, the daughter of a wealthy landowner on the far edge of town – couldn't offer me shelter. I was convinced her rich parents were horrified by their child's friendship with a "lowly orphan" such as myself.

I walked out of the Square and away from the storefronts, following the sun-blasted streets into the poorest section of District 10 – the Slaughterhouse Ward. There the many processing plant and factory workers lived, spending hours and hours each day with the blood of animals staining their hands. I found it funny that the Capitol paid the smallest sums to the people who handled and packaged their food, but it wasn't like that would hurt _me_. I didn't mind if a Capitol citizen or two got salmonella.

The buildings in the Ward were a far cry from the brick and stone constructs of the Square. Wooden shacks looked like they'd fall apart at the lightest touch, with holes in the walls and roofs. Rats and beetles slunk in and out of abandoned houses while homeless folk slept in ditches on the side of the road, trying to avoid the heat the sun for as long as possible. I wiped sweat off my brow as I walked past the destitution. This is the kind of life that defined District 10: People didn't become Slaughterhouse workers and meatpackers to escape their misery. These jobs _became_ their misery.

A boy no more than eight sat on the front step of a half-collapsed house, a rickety, wooden, hand-made string instrument in his hands. He sang out a mellow tune as he strummed the strings, his voice carrying across the dusty street.

"_Tell me there's food; tell me there's life,_

_Tell me I can't feel the sting of the knife,_

_Don't lie to me; I hear it in the trees,_

_Everything I see is dead and wrong."_

I watched the child as he sang and lost himself in the music. What an apt song for District 10 – the Ward in particular. Life? There was no life to be enjoyed in the Ward.

"_Tell me I belong; tell me I'm fit,_

_There ain't a reason to believe you a bit,_

_Don't lie to me; I hear it in the trees,_

_Everything I see is dead and wrong."_

"Look who comes strollin' through the Ward," a thick, raspy voice called out to me. "Nomad Strickland. Ain't he got a…_Reaping_ to attend to?"

A well-tanned, skinny man at least three inches shorter than I slumped against a wooden column on a porch nearby, sucking on a piece of hay and watching me with a pair of gray eyes. I knew this man: He was one of the most notorious figures of District 10's underground, a former slaughterhouse worker named Clanton Turner. The landowners feared him, and the only reason the Peacekeepers hadn't dragged him off and hanged him was because his death would incite a violent riot from half the district's poor.

To people like me, however, he was an ideal. This average-looking, malnourished man in his forties was proof that one didn't have to submit themselves to the grind of District 10's daily life in order to make a living. All it took (as if it were so easy) was a healthy disregard for the Peacekeepers.

"Not until ten," I nodded at him, sliding in beneath the porch's meager shade. "I don't think they like Reaping people like me, either. We don't dress up for their Games."

"Think them got plenty of folk in their suck-up districts to do that for 'em," Clanton spat on the dusty street, taking off his hat and beating it against his overalls to clean the grime off. "Here, it's just one less mouth to feed."

"As if we're eating anything good."

"Well, ya' can't convince me that them rich landowners ain't got the Capitol's finest on their tables. You tell me they ain't fed you good at the orphanage when you lived there? Look at you: You got at least twenty pounds, three inches on me. They ain't even bother to pick me off the streets when I was your age. You a crazy fool to leave."

"We live in different times, I suppose."

"Heh. Ain't seen none the other orphans built like that."

"Well, call me special, then. I can't speak for them."

"Hm," he narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down. "Well I tell you what, then, Strickland. I got a job for you. Come meet me at the Stink after this whole Reaping business is over."

"You're not going to tell me what the job is?"

"Nah. Not yet. I know you got that blonde landowner girl you always talk to. Can't have you spillin' the beans to her pretty face."

I laughed half-heartedly as Clanton spat the hay out of his mouth, nodding at me and walking inside the decrepit shack. The man knew something about everyone, it seemed – even my friendship with Cheyenne. He was one person I didn't want to get on the bad side of.

Still, if he was offering me something to do, I'd happily oblige. The Stink – a former underground manure facility abandoned for the last twenty years or so – was the heart of District 10's underground activity. People bought and sold wares on the black market there, but it was much more than a commercial establishment: It was the only meeting place where average or poor folk like me could speak our minds and have actual discussions over our district's welfare. The Peacekeepers were only too happy to look the other way: The Stink offered an outlet for all the pent-up steam of the slaughterhouse or dairy workers, and that meant fewer ruffians or disturbances for the Peacekeepers to deal with. Everyone won.

Of course, there were always less-scrupulous activities there, as well. From rat fighting to taking drugs of questionable make, an enterprising (or bored) individual could find plenty of ways to pass the time at the Stink.

I idled for a few hours in the Ward, pitching rocks at rats and offering passing greetings to the few people I knew. All too soon it was time for me to head down to the Square, however – the Reaping was back for another year.

_Two more to go_, I thought as I scuffled down the dusty roads back towards the center of town. _This year's and next year's Reapings, and I'm done with this charade_.

I'd be happy to get it out of the way. It wasn't that I was afraid of being Reaped, but the Capitol's event was an annoyance and a waste of time. The Reaping was no happy occasion for anyone in District 10, despite the celebratory atmosphere the Capitol put on. Our district's history of futility in the Hunger Games was almost as bad as District 12's, the poorest district of Panem. We had a grand total of three victors in the entire 67-year run of the Games: While District 10 recorded wins in both the second and the 21st Games, we'd only had one victor since – and he had died a few years ago.

Our tributes since had been left with two elderly mentors to get them through the Games. No wonder no one from the district won.

I pulled up my sleeves and wiped sweaty dust from my splint, leaving a swath of clean white bandage behind. _That'd be hilarious if I'm picked_, I thought sarcastically. _District 10 – your male tribute is an orphaned kid with a bad wrist. Have faith!_

More and more children packed the streets as I made my way closer to the Square. District 10 was a big town, and the central quad was only large enough to fit all the kids of Reap-able age. Everyone else fanned out in the surrounding streets, watching the proceedings on hundred foot-wide screens set up in advance. It was a horrible way for parents to watch their children condemned to death, but that was the logistics of dealing with a large district.

"Nomad!" a cheery girl's voice chirped from somewhere in the river of kids. "Wait!"

A tall, blonde girl with deep brown eyes pushed her way past a gaggle of twelve year-olds, bumping into a pair of malnourished twins before running up to me. Cheyenne Elwe was easy to pick out as the daughter of wealthy parents: She was dressed in a clean blue blouse and white skirt that had barely collected any dust, and her hair was still perfectly set in a flowing mane of blonde. She looked like she was from another planet compared to the rest of us.

"Thought you'd be with your other friends," I grabbed her shoulder and guided her past a group of nervous younger kids. "Don't you girls all stick together on Reaping day?"

"I'm actually really sick of everyone crying and sobbing," she said wryly. "After the tenth 'I'll die if I get picked' remark, it's like…_please_ stop. Sometimes I gotta be around someone who can actually handle things."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," I remarked. "Maybe those crying girls are the smart ones."

"Whatcha mean?"

"Look around you," I said, pointing around to huddled groups of scared children making their way with us to the Square. "You think any of these kids have a chance in the Games? Hell, do you think we do? Remember that guy who won last year? Typhon, from District 2 – just scars everywhere from head to toe, probably as large as four of these kids put together and completely hell-bent on killing everything. There's no beating a monster like that. They hand-craft 'em to murder and kill in District 2 and those other places where the kids volunteer for the Games."

"That guy was an exception," Cheyenne waved aside my cynicism as we stepped in line to be checked in to the Square. "Even Caesar Flickerman pointed out that they'd never seen anything like him. He was like a…an _anomaly_, or something. Just wrong. A 16 year-old kid shouldn't be able to do the things he did."

"Well, he did. 'Shoulds' don't matter," I scoffed.

"Well, take heart. That Typhon kid was an orphan too. Maybe you guys have a leg up."

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Just trying to help," she rolled her eyes.

"Unless 'help' buys a couple sponsorships for whatever poor schlub gets Reaped, I don't think it's much help at all."

Cheyenne was a decent girl, but she sure was naïve sometimes. Growing up in the sheltered confines of the wealthy protected her from the day-to-day struggle of District 10. Every one of the children around us wouldn't go home to a prepared meal and a soft bed; if they weren't Reaped, they'd be sleeping on dirt or hay, eating rat or weeds or whatever else their parents could manage to put together.

That was one good thing about the rats. They were one of District 10's best sources of food, and the Peacekeepers were all too happy to allow people to hunt and kill them.

I worked my way up in the line, past the Capitol attendants checking everyone in and into the Square. Cheyenne headed off to the girls' 17 year-old section after a quick wave goodbye as I stepped into the boy's group. I didn't know any of these other kids around me, but based on the sad faces and downcast eyes, I could tell none of them wanted to be there.

_Join the crowd, buddies._ At least I could go watch some drunks beat each other up in the Stink later. That freedom was a perk of not having a family to go home to; also, I didn't have stress about anyone being Reaped, save Cheyenne. Most everyone else I knew was too old to be picked.

A girl in a bright blue dress caught my eye as she made her way forward into the Square. It was Samantha Harper, the Doc's kid, all dressed up with a blue ribbon and white flower in her hair as she stepped into the 13 year-old girls' section. Something about her struck me as odd: I didn't know if it was the dignified manner she carried herself with or her dry eyes, but Samantha was out of place with the crying, teary girls all around her. Her clean clothes and straight posture made her look more suited to District 1 or 2 than this dump.

I'd have hated for her to get Reaped. The Doc was a good guy, and he deserved a lifetime with his daughter.

Our elderly mayor – a forgettable man – made his way onto the wooden stage in front of the Hall of Justice, followed by two people who everyone in District 10 knew. A wizened man with a long, silver beard sat down beside the mayor, dressed in a plain gray coat and slacks. I don't know how Matthias, the victor of the 21st Hunger Games, wasn't burning up in that outfit considering the heat, but he looked like the most comfortable person in the square.

I suppose it's easier once you've already _won_ the Games.

The other victor – a woman who looked the same age in a brown robe with black gloves and shirt – was District 10's biggest mystery. She was Shiva, the winner of the 2nd Hunger Games and the oldest living victor in all of Panem. Despite her being almost 20 years older than Matthias, she looked his equal – and she'd shown none of the terrible effects of aging that usually struck the elderly in District 10, such as dementia and creaky joints. Some people believed the rumors that she learned the secret to immortality from the Capitol; that there was some sort of "fountain of youth" she'd tapped into. Whatever the secret, she wasn't telling anyone: Shiva was as tight-lipped and secretive as victors came.

After several more minutes, Hecuba trotted out. She was dressed in a garish outfit of maroon and orange, but her face told the real story. I'd seen other districts' escorts either delighted and cheery in their positions or zealously patriotic and proud, but I had yet to see another escort as surly and disgruntled as Hecuba. She was the epitome of someone who hated her job: She frowned angrily as she stepped in front of the microphone, her brown eyes narrowing and scanning the crowd as if she was targeting machine guns on us. I had to wonder whether she volunteered to be an escort or if she was forced into the job.

_You can always come work in a meatpacking plant…_

"District 10," Hecuba rasped, grabbing the microphone tightly in her bony hands. "Welcome to the Reaping of the 68th Hunger Games. The odds are in your favor."

_That's not even the line_, I thought. Hecuba was bad enough as an escort that she couldn't even say the right words. How difficult was "May the odds be ever in your favor" to memorize?

Hecuba moved on, pointing up to the big screen draped over the Hall of Justice for a video presentation from the Capitol. I gave the men in charge credit: They always gave us something new with the videos. Sure, usually it was new speech from the President or some collage of footage with Hunger Games host Caesar Flickerman narrating, but at least we were never bored by the same old thing.

This year it was President Snow, the gray-bearded, didactic leader of Panem, speaking to us. He stood in front of the mountains surrounding the alpine Capitol, dressed in a simple white robe with his arms spread apart.

"The Hunger Games," Snow began softly. "A competition between 24 of Panem's best and brightest young men and women, competing to rise above the rest as victor. But what is this test of glory and strength we celebrate each year? Is it just that – a test? Or is it something more? Something meaningful?"

"I have seen decades of the Games. I was elected President more than thirty years ago at the fair hands of the people. Yet I do not see myself as a great leader. When the people of Panem voted for me to lead this great nation, I asked them, 'Why me, Panem? Why make me your leader? I am not a worthy man. I am not a compelling man. I am not an all-powerful man.'"

"And do you know what the people told me? 'That's right. You're not any of those things, President. But the strong men, the worthy men, are not meant to lead this nation. The strong men plow the fields, work the machinery, and mine the ore that makes our great country go. Those are the worthy men. But if even a man such as you can achieve greatness, what does that say about the greatness in the hearts of all people across Panem?'"

"This is the legacy of the Hunger Games," Snow looked earnestly into the camera, spreading his arms wide as an alpine wind blew across his beard. "Born from the fire of rebellion in the Dark Days, the Games are a teaching moment to remind us that each of us – every one of us from the farmer to the manufacturer to the politician – has greatness in our hearts. For what are the Games, if not a sieve to find the best of us?"

"We find 24 strong young men and women each year to identify our heroes and heroines, to show the country just how great we can be. And in doing so, we forgive, in our hearts, the blood of the Dark Days. We forgive the punishments we inflicted on each other, the fight between brothers. We forgive our history of bloodshed, celebrating a new future where any of us – from District 1 to District 12 – can become a legend. Is it you? Is it you, children of Panem? Will you rise up and take your place among the pantheon of heroes?"

I had to hand it to the President: He was unrivaled as a speaker. He'd been able to hold power for so long because he understood how to dig into people's hearts – and by instructing his Peacekeepers to allow places such as the Stink to exist and thrive, he'd insured that no challenge to his power and stability had ever emerged from the placated, if disgruntled, majority.

Smart man. It took a smart man – or a deluded one, maybe – to justify something like the Hunger Games.

"Now," Hecuba followed Snow's moving speech with her own bland, tired words. "We Reap our tributes. First, women."

_How subtle_, I thought. How Hecuba hadn't been fired yet, I didn't know. She was a great example of what the Capitol _really_ was: Behind Snow's veneer and proud patriotism, it was people like Hecuba who stood out to the impoverished districts like our own. Not every Capitol citizen shared in Snow's visions of glory.

Half the Square went silent as Hecuba stuck her bony hand into the glass bowl holding the names of every girl between the ages of twelve and 18 in the district. I wasn't worried about Cheyenne – as the daughter of a wealthy man, she'd only have her name in the bowl once for every year she'd stood in the Reaping. She hadn't taken tesserae, either – hadn't added her name each year for additional food and supplies like poor children had.

I wondered about little Samantha Harper up in the 13 year-olds' section. Was the Doc worrying about her as he watched the screens on a side street? Was _she_ worrying?

Before I had a chance to wonder why I was concerning myself with a girl I barely even knew, Hecuba called out this year's female tribute: "Odessa Woodson."

A tiny girl stumbled out of the 12 year-olds' section, her feet tangling up as she managed to catch herself before she fell. I got the feeling she was a goner: Odessa was no more than four-and-a-half feet tall, and while her wavy brown hair and pale face made her a cute kid, appealing to the Capitol's heart could only go so far.

_Good lord, Nomad_, I thought. _Look at you, sizing up Odessa there like she's a meal. You'd fit in great with Caesar Flickerman on the preview show_.

Hecuba yanked Odessa on stage, pulling the terrified girl in front of the microphone before abandoning her to dig around in the boys' Reaping bowl. I barely had time to consider that my name was in a number of times before the escort dug out a paper slip.

"Our male tribute," Hecuba sighed. "Nomad Strickland."

_Not so hilarious now_.


	3. The Dark Road

**_A/N: Thanks for the review, RFD! It's good to have questions and things to consider - although I'll note that many of the questions, particularly about Nomad in particular, have answers that will be explained piece by piece throughout the series. I don't want to spoil things, so I'll leave it there, although I'm always happy to go more in-depth via PM.  
_**

* * *

As I'd expected, I'd had only one visitor during my hour-long wait in the Justice Hall. Cheyenne had stumbled in, holding back tears with a grim stoicism. She knew the odds of me coming back weren't good; neither of us had to admit the truth. We'd sat together for our allotted three minutes, neither speaking much. There hadn't been much to say.

I'd immediately regretted that once the Peacekeeper pulled her out. When her eyes met mine as the door shut, I'd felt compelled to say something – _anything_. She'd been one of my few friends over the past year since I'd left the orphanage; the only person I'd been able to feel _normal_ around. Now she was gone. Now I had no one.

Odessa, Hecuba, and I sat in silence during the bumpy car ride to the train station. I coughed up a mouthful of dust as I watched run-down buildings pass by in the window. I'd never see this things again: No, my next stop would be the Capitol. There'd be no shacks there; no Stink, no poverty, no Clanton Turner or other law-breaking ruffians. I'd be thrown into an alien world full of goggle-eyed oddities dressed in the most garish colors imaginable, sprouting money from their wallets as if currency grew in their pockets.

Alien, indeed.

The train station came up fast. It wasn't anything impressive – merely a wooden platform with a rusting metal railing. The silver beast pulled into the station was a far cry from the station, however. Glistening sunlight sparkled off of the silver train that would take Odessa and I to the Capitol. The train didn't even touch the tracks beneath it; rather, lightning bolts shot up from the rails, propelling the vehicle a meter off the ground. Nothing levitated like that in District 10. That was technology never before seen in a place like this.

"We are here," Hecuba said, grunting and pushing open the door. "Out. Follow me."

She grabbed Odessa's hand and yanked the girl out of the car after her. I pushed open my own door, marveling at the train before Hecuba shot me an ugly look. I quickly followed, figuring it'd be a bad idea to get on my escort's bad side. She already hated her job enough; why make it harder?

_Then again, she probably deserves it. Does that beast ever smile?_

The three of us climbed several metal steps into the train, and the world around me instantly changed.

Gone was the dust, the heat, the smell of animals and manure. In its place, a crystal chandelier hung down from a titanium ceiling, illuminating the train's interior with the white glow of a hundred frosty bulbs. Cheery white carpeting stretched from wall to wall, supporting blue plush furniture and silver tables. Bronze holders offered exotic fruits and edibles I'd never seen before. The train was a monument to excess, with the lounge alone sporting enough luxury to support several District 10 families for years.

_What a waste_.

Odessa looked around in wonder, her eyes wide as she stared at the glittering chandelier. I slumped down in a chair instead: Something about this place felt…_familiar_. A gnawing tension in my gut told me I'd seen this before, as if I'd recalled it from a forgotten dream.

_That's crazy talk_, I thought, clearing my head. _There's nothing like this in the district. 'Specially not on the streets or in the orphanage._

"You will remain here," Hecuba said icily, pushing Odessa into a chair beside me. "I will find your mentors."

Hecuba shoved open the car's door, letting it slam behind her.

"Callous vulture," I muttered under my breath. I held back from any number of nastier insults I could have said; after all, younger ears were around.

Odessa wrapped her hands together, her thumbs fidgeting as she watched me: "You're…Nomad, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's my name."

"Oh…I'm…uh…"

"Odessa. I got that."

She bit her lip, looking down at her feet before glancing up at me. I got the feeling that she wanted to ask me something, but she was holding back. I'd been right about what I'd first thought: Odessa probably didn't have a chance. She was too shy, too quiet, too reserved…the Capitol would never like that, and the big volunteers from the tougher districts like 1 and 2 would devour her. Kids like her sprouted up every year: The cannon fodder that the Capitol loved to feed to the tougher tributes. In a bloody contest like the Hunger Games, there had to be plenty of losers in order to crown a victor.

"Um," she spoke up again, refusing to make eye contact with me. "Did your…your parents come to say good-bye?"

"Don't got parents," I muttered.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry about."

Odessa quieted down again, looking back at her feet. I was probably being too harsh in replying to her questions – after all, she couldn't have known who I was. Few people outside those who frequented the Stink did – and there was _no_ way she frequented the Stink.

"I was wondering," Odessa said meekly. "I...we're both from District 10, and we don't really have victors much…I just wanted to know…"

"You want to team up."

I glanced over to her as she nodded weakly. It was too bad she'd been Reaped. Odessa looked like a nice girl: She was probably some landowner's or farmhand's daughter, not used to the rough life in the Ward I'd grown up with. The Hunger Games would be a shock to her: Going without food for days, surviving against the worst of mankind while an even _worse_ audience cheered on her death.

I didn't have much sympathy for many people, but I reserved that for people like her. Victims – those who faced overwhelming odds and didn't have a chance – deserved that much.

_Not like me. Save the sympathy for those who need it._

"Look…Odessa…" I said, trying my best to sound nice. "You seem like a good girl…but let's save this conversation for later. I'm not in the strategizing mood right now."

I leaned back in my chair as she stared back down at her feet, looking disappointed. _Sorry, girl_.

I shut my eyes, breathing in deeply as I tried to make sense of everything. Tomorrow I'd be in the Capitol. Tomorrow would start a week of real training – a week of capturing the audience's eye, a week of showing off everything I had. What did I have? I could kill a rat and steal things, but besides that? I'd never killed another person before. I couldn't figure it'd be all _that_ different from killing an animal, but until I actually got in the arena and went face-to-face against another tribute, I wouldn't know.

A strange, whispering voice crawls up in my head. It sings just behind my ear, calling out with a dark melody and deep, sinister undertone: _How easy it is. Everything dies, Nomad...has died, will die. Press the blade against the flesh, push the muscles to work it in. Easy. Mechanical. What the body was meant to do – what you were built to do._

I shook my head, clearing the thoughts. _I am going crazy. Get out of my head_.

A _whoosh_ signaled the opening of the door as old Matthias walked in. The victor had a stately, wizened air about him, as if he'd come to terms with the Games a long time ago and avoided the ghastly fates that awaited unlucky victors. Many winners of the Hunger Games turned to drugs, or alcohol, or the mercy of suicide; few who had been around for a while carried themselves like Matthias. The man's long silver hair was combed neatly and fell down his head in ocean-like waves. His long beard ended in a perfect point; his blue eyes shined with cheer and optimism even in this gloomy situation.

"Good morning," he said with a smile. "Or, I believe, it is now the afternoon. No matter. It is the right time to get acquainted."

He looked to each of us slowly, his gaze comfortable and warm: "Odessa and Nomad. Even in my age, I can still remember names and faces. I am Matthias. I will be mentoring you both during the Games, along with my partner Shiva. She will be joining us later tonight at dinner…but for now, I urge you ask any questions you may have. I know you will both have plenty."

"What are we supposed to do?" Odessa blurted out as she ran a hand through her hair nervously.

"What you do is, of course, always of your choosing," Matthias held a hand out. "But I would _suggest_ you not to worry about what is to come, Odessa. I believe you'll find that anything you need to worry about will find you first."

_The man talks in riddles_, I thought. _They're wise riddles, but riddles_.

"Have you two been introduced?" our mentor asked.

"Yeah," I grunted. "Yeah, we exchanged names."

"Good. I have always found formalities to be unnecessary," Matthias said. "Too much formal in here already. How Hecuba does chide me for breaking the glassware. We will have plenty of time until our late meal; I would advise both of you to take some time for yourselves. You'll find bedroom cars to the rear. Odessa, yours will be the second back; Nomad, yours the third. If there's nothing more, I'll need to excuse myself; I believe I've drank too many complementary beverages."

Matthias gave us a parting smile as he headed back through the door he came in. I liked the man. He wasn't the normal victor – not the kind of man who would tell us the best battle strategies and survival methods right off the bat – but his self-deprecating humor, honesty, and warm demeanor put me at ease.

"I…are you going back?" Odessa stood up, glancing at me questionably. "I need to change. I don't want to wear this anymore."

"Later," I replied, staring off at the wall. "Go on ahead."

She let her gaze linger on me for a moment before pushing her way into the next car. I sat in silence, alone with my thoughts. Two victors – one of whom I had yet to meet – an unpleasant escort, a scared twelve year-old girl, and I. That was District 10's representation in the Games. That was a sorry lot if I'd ever seen it.

"The girl is a weakness. Do not waste your time on those who do not deserve it."

I looked around, startled, as the slithering female voice crept up on me. A brown-robed woman stood in the corner of the lounge car, the hood of her robe concealing her eyes and the top of her head. She folded her arms and watched me as if she were studying a subject.

"You're Shiva?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. "Victor? 2nd Hunger Games?"

"Who I am does not matter," she replied sharply. "Not to you. But that is the name these others call me, yes. What matters now, however, is you. You feel sympathy for this girl. It is misplaced."

"You talkin' 'bout Odessa?" I stuck my thumb behind my shoulder. "I was under the impression you were mentoring her, too."

"I am," she replied. "But it is a simple mind that cannot judge strength from weakness. It is the simple man that will feel sympathy in a contest where only one may emerge. If you value your life, you will see her for what she is – an obstacle."

I chuckled and smiled wryly, glancing down at the floor. Who on earth did Shiva think she was?

"It's like you think she's died already," I laughed. "That's a confidence booster."

"And has she not?" Shiva answered quickly. "Perhaps not here. Perhaps not in her head – or even in yours, as simple as it may be – but there is a time where she has already died. It is only a matter of arriving at it."

"Look," I stared up at her, resting my chin on my thumb. "I don't think we're off to a great start here. Yea, I'm not the most sympathetic guy ever, but I'm not just going to off that girl right here and now on the train. She doesn't seem bad…and I don't think you really know me."

"More than you know," Shiva uncrossed her arms and walked in front of me. Even though I couldn't see her eyes, I could feel them staring at me like a pair of lasers. Something about this woman struck me as dangerous – despite her old age, she projected power and control like no one I'd ever seen. "You grew up in an orphanage…yet no one there remembers you in the year since you've left. You spent the last year in the streets, feeling isolated, feeling ignored…as if the world itself went on without you. And in a way, it did. The men who worship the Capitol and its systems, those who profess the value of 'honest work'…they have left you behind on the streets of District 10."

"And yet here you are in the Hunger Games. A farce. A boy the Capitol forgot, confronting the forces who keep people like him in the dust of the district. Do you know what they have bred…what you have become? An _underdog_. A man of the _people_. That girl you feel sympathy for? She is not either of those. She is only like the Capitol we travel to…at the end of all things, destructive."

I sat up straight, pulling back from her gaze: "How the hell do you know about my past?"

"No wise man ignores the seeds of their home," Shiva answered. "And I have walked the dark roads of this soil for a long, long time. I could tell you all about the girl…but she is not relevant."

"Why's that?"

"Understanding is not your concern. Not yet. _Action_ is. Now go to your quarters. I would advise you think about what you want out of the Hunger Games – whether you'd prefer the whispers of being forgotten, or the chance at immortality. I leave the choice in your hands."


	4. Tyrant and Tributes

_I leave the choice in your hands…whether you'd prefer the whispers of being forgotten, or the chance at immortality._

I stared out the window of my cabin, watching the dry plains rush by the train as I thought over Shiva's words. _The chance at immortality_…but was that what victory brought? Immortality? Or was it merely a pedestal for the Capitol to show off their latest toys, boasting to the districts about their greatness?

No doubt winning the Games would have changed my life. I'd never lived for much in my 17 years; between the orphanage and the streets, my visions of a future could be measured in days. What would I do with riches, a house, access to any district I wanted, and no reason to do anything but sleep all day? Would I do _anything_ as a victor?

_On the upside_, I thought with a certain sense of satisfaction. _I could out-wager the entire Stink on rat fighting matches every single day. _Wasting money on trivialities – that was the hallmark of nearly _every_ victor.

I knock on my door caught my attention. I pushed myself off my cabin's wide, plush bed, cursing as I stubbed my toe on the gleaming silver dresser nearby. I gingerly opened the door, pulling it just wide enough to give me a look on who wanted access.

Odessa stood outside, dressed in a fresh white gown and curling a lock of hair around her finger: "Did you decide?"

I sighed and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was only three; we had plenty of time before any evening meal – several districts' Reapings hadn't even begun yet. I didn't have anything better to do; I'd have nothing to lose by letting my district partner in.

"Yeah, c'mon in," I said, pulling open the door all the way for her to slide by.

She plopped down on the far end of the bed, looking up at me expectantly. Did this girl really think we'd be a good pair of allies? Her, a little 12 year-old with hardly a chance in the world…and me, a lone ranger who only followed his own interests? One of us would end up dead within a day.

"Look, girl," I said, closing the door and leaning against the wall.

"I have a name," she interrupted me. "It's really okay if you use it."

I crossed my arms and frowned at her. _Feisty kid…_"Look, _Odessa_. Why do you want to ally with me anyway? 'Because we're district partners' isn't a very good reason. You're a nice girl…I'm anything but a nice guy. You don't look like you can hurt a rat, let alone a person…me; I don't see much difference between animals, whether they have four legs or two. Does this sound like a good match to you?"

"We _need_ each other, Nomad," Odessa pleaded, her eyes widening. "We're not going to survive if we just try to go out on our own. Look at the last few years; look who's won: From that Typhon guy last year to that Finnick kid from District 4 a few years ago, the volunteers almost always win. It's gonna be no different if we don't do something."

"And that something is bringing District 10 together to fight the volunteers, or something? Is this your great plan?"

"It's my _only_ plan. Look at me. I'm twelve. Nobody my age has ever won. What chance do you think I have?"

"So that's what this is," I leaned back against the wall, smiling subtly as I looked down at her. "Appealing to my sensibilities. Well guess what, Odessa? I do feel bad for you; a little bit, at least. But why would that make me any interested in allying? What do I get out of that if we both die anyway? Seems pretty short-sighted."

Odessa's lip trembled as she looked up at me: "Can I speak truthfully?"

"You can say whatever the hell you want."

"You don't have a chance either. Not without help."

I laughed. The girl had some courage, I'd give her that: "And why's that?"

"Look at _you!_ You're…_arrogant_, you're cold; you might be bigger than me, but why would the audience like you? I'm not dumb, Nomad. I get that victors are supposed to be likable."

"The audience likes one thing," I said. "Blood. I might not like the Capitol people too much, but that's one thing I can give them."

I looked out the window, watching lazy clouds hang in the sky: "I'll tell you what, Odessa. Training, we do our own thing. If we somehow cross paths in the arena…well, we can talk about it then. Sound good?"

She gave me a frustrated look before walking out of my room in a hurry. _Guess she didn't want an alliance after all_.

Truth be told, the only thing I could've used little Odessa for would have been as cannon fodder or bait. When she even admitted she had no chance, it had been enough for me. The Games weren't subtle affairs won by talking or negotiating. I may not have been the most seductive tribute of all time, but Capitol support could only get you so far. In recent years, the Gamesmakers had been averse to letting tributes starve or die to natural causes in the arenas. It bored the audience; they preferred violence. Sponsorships weren't much good when it came down to combat. The Games three years ago had been the exception: District 4's Finnick Odair, a man half the Capitol had fallen in love with, had received a trident in the arena from all the sponsorships he garnered. That'd been his saving grace as he cut down his competition.

I had neither his looks nor his sweet tongue, however. No, I'd have to rely on myself – not the Capitol.

I idled in my room for another two hours before heading off to the dining car. The yellow plains sun slowly settled towards the horizon as I wandered through the lounge, past a grumpy Hecuba who ignored my entrance. I hoped she wouldn't join us for dinner; it already seemed like I'd get no help from the escort.

Matthias and Odessa were already sitting at the table as I walked into the dining car. Platefuls of food, from brilliant fruits to crisp vegetables and savory meats, lay waiting for me to dig into.

The Hunger Games presenter, a middle-aged man named Caesar Flickerman with cardinal hair and a matching suit, talked loudly on the television in the room as I sat down. Odessa looked the other way: I supposed she was still smarting over my cold rejection of her alliance proposal. So it was. If she had decided that we'd be enemies, that was fine by me.

"Please, sit – eat!" Matthias welcomed me with a smile, pushing a bowl of bread in my direction. "More than enough for everyone…and then some, I believe."

"Pretty fancy," I muttered, loading some colorful, leafy concoction onto my plate. "Did uh…Caesar here…mention anything about the other districts' tributes?"

"Just arriving to that part, actually," Matthias replied.

Caesar turned towards the camera, his trademark pearly white smile flashing: "…and I'd like to take the time to remind _all_ our viewers – we'll have an exclusive interview with President Snow himself right after we cover our recap of the Reapings. You can _only_ see it here – so don't go anywhere folks! What a day we've had – we've seen everything from the typical to the unusual, so let's get started in glamorous District 1…"

District 1 immediately highlighted Caesar's use of "unusual." Straight off the bat, a huge, towering boy with a mane of black hair named Fafnir was Reaped. Another kid tried to volunteer for him, but as soon as he got the words out of his mouth, Fafnir rushed down, grabbed him by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. It was a display of violence straight out of the playbook from District 2…but this wasn't District 2. District 1 usually produced the glitzy type of victor with a stunning smile and silver hair – and in fact the district's girl, a tall vixen named Medea, was exactly that type of person.

Fafnir was something different entirely.

District 2's kids didn't approach his size and ferocity, but they were powerful people in their own right. The girl from the district, Freyr, was a slender, sleek girl with short-cropped black hair who looked eager to stab someone in the back. District 2's boy was the cold sort: Makhai, as Caesar called him, stared out at the gray, stone-cut buildings of the district with a pair of burnt-out gray eyes. He was bald and tough, but there was something odd going on inside that head of his. From the way he smiled ever so slightly, I got the feeling strength wasn't what I should have been worried about with him.

The rest of the field evened out after those four, with a particularly underwhelming pair of volunteers coming from traditionally-competitive District 4. A tough-looking, mahogany-skinned girl from District 6, Atalanta, looked almost bemused as she was Reaped. District 7 produced a pair of strapping eighteen year-olds, the boy Palici and girl Echo, who looked competent, if nothing else. District 9's male tribute, a powerful boy with rough, hewn skin named Koobus, looked as if he were ready to kill his escort for calling him forward.

There I was, smack dab in brown District 10, my hair a mess and my eyes half-closed as if I was bored when walking forward. It wasn't exactly the trait I was going for, but compared to frightened, tentative Odessa, I looked capable. That probably wouldn't endear me to the tougher kids, but like with Odessa, I wasn't interested in watching over a bunch of allies in a life-or-death situation, anyway.

"I don't like that boy from District 2," Odessa said after Caesar finished recapping a pair of uninspiring tributes from District 12. "Something about him."

"It is the way of all from District 2 who enter the arena," Matthias said. "More than just training. They are bound by a culture that prides its strongest, rather than its weakest. When a district idolizes its best, it leaves all others behind. Those two children want nothing more than to join that pantheon…even at the risk of death."

"Aren't they already rich in District 2?" Odessa asked.

"No. No, no…they are embraced by the Capitol, but they are not rich. Not in wealth, not in mind, not in culture. Any district that sells its children into military servitude is not a wealthy one. They may be patriotic, loyal to the Capitol – zealous, even - but not wealthy."

"Zealous," I muttered. "Why?"

"Do not underestimate the effect President Snow can have on people," Matthias answered solemnly, leaning back in his seat, his face growing old in the white light of the overhead chandelier. "To those who believe in him, he is more than a man."

I was about to ask what he meant by that, but Caesar interrupted me: "I know you've all been waiting out there, so I'm proud to introduce our president…Coriolanus Snow. Mister President, welcome."

Snow's weathered face and white hair dwarfed Caesar's colorful outfit, his presence overwhelming. Although the president wore a humble expression, I couldn't deny that he felt larger than life. He had always given off the same feeling in those Reaping videos and during past Hunger Games. It was as if Snow was one step ahead of his audience, like he knew some secret but wasn't telling. Either he had a masterful public relations team, or the man was unrivaled at capturing the attention of a nation.

After the customary introductions, Caesar and Snow dove into a number of questions about the Hunger Games. The two traded tidbits I knew for a while, but late in the interview, Caesar veered off into uncharted territory.

"Over the last thirteen years, you've become quite hands-on with the Games," Caesar said, looking serious. "I don't think anyone can deny they've been at their best, but this is has been a trying time for you."

"Of course," Snow nodded. "After what happened those years ago, I originally felt anger and yearned for justice. But those were base urges; feelings escaping from the demon within us all. When I awoke from that haze and realized what I was thinking, I understood that I could use that turning point as a teaching moment. And who am I, if not a teacher standing on the biggest pulpit in Panem?"

"So many people think the Hunger Games are about revenge - that they're punishment for what happened in the Dark Days. But like what happened to me thirteen years ago, revenge isn't what we strive for. It's forgiveness. The Games are how we bond, how we unite, how our wounds heal. Year after year we come together in this ceremony and we forgive the violence of our ancestors. We proclaim that we will learn from their deeds, and we become a better people – a better nation."

"Thirteen years ago?" I asked, my eyes transfixed on the screen. "What happened then?"

"Not a story they tell you in the districts, no…especially as this broadcast is only viewed by those in the Capitol."

Shiva's voice caught me off guard. She hadn't shown up for the recap, only now making her entrance as we watched Caesar and Snow.

I turned towards the door. Shiva's hood still concealed her eyes, but I could see what she was feeling by the way her lip curled into a sneer. Watching Snow's speech didn't make her want to forgive, nor learn, nor become a better person. It filled her with _hate_.

"Why isn't it told in the districts?" Odessa said quietly.

"Because it is about him," Shiva pointed with a skeletal hand towards the screen. "About the tyrant. About the man he is…and the man he is not."

Shiva took a seat between Matthias and I, resting her elbows on the table and intertwining her fingers: "The man rose to power as a dictator. He killed those who stood in his way and would let none stand before him and his rule. He was no different than any other petty lord in his early days. Man has seen thousands of them in history."

"Yet he did not stay that way. The tyrant had a son, an heir, one he tolerated but did not love. He loved the son's daughter, however…his granddaughter, a mystery lost to the past of our time. She was born thirteen years ago, and the tyrant predicted that she would rise and take his place after he was gone. The Capitol, of course, loved this. Others did not."

"During a procession in his honor," Shiva went on, her face never once changing in its expression of distaste. "A rogue dissident decided to change the course of history. He charged over the barricades surrounding what was once called the Avenue of the Tributes – where the chariot parade happens each year before the Hunger Games – holding a makeshift bomb in each hand, another strapped to his chest. The dissident kept running despite being shot, made it alongside the carriage carrying the tyrant and his family…and detonated his explosives."

"Snow, of course, survived…the tyrant has a tight grip on life. His family did not. Both his son and his granddaughter, along with all the others in the carriage, perished. The tyrant changed after that moment. He abandoned his all-encompassing power grab, painting himself instead as a redeemer and guardian of Panem. A personality cult grew up around him, spreading quickly across the Capitol as he entrenched his ideals of 'forgiveness' and 'altruism', notions he perverted into worship of his figure. This cult spread into the districts. Districts 1, 2, 4, and to an extent, 5, all came to see the tyrant as something more than a man. He became the icon you see today. Now, Snow is less a man of ideals…he _is_ the ideal, a false prophet holding onto his rein while blinding his people."

"Wait a minute," I held out my hand. "If all that you just said is true…why don't we hear any of that in District 10? Nobody loves him back home. Nobody even _knows_ he had a son."

"Why the spread the word to where it need not be said?" Shiva answered. "District 10, District 11, District 12 – these are mere blemishes on the tyrant's work. He has what he wants. He has control of the people who matter to him and the Capitol…and in his view, his rein is safe. He is free to carry out whatever action he wants in the Capitol and the districts that cherish him so long as they bow to his image. The minute freedoms he allows in District 10 are a discount compared to the power he now controls."

"How do you know all that?" Odessa said from across the table.

"You hear a great many things in the Capitol," Matthias sighed. "If either of you win, you will come to understand, too."

"There are dark places and dark people in this world," Shiva added. "Like all of them, Snow is but an illusion, the creation of one twisted variable. There are secrets in the Capitol…secrets in the Hunger Games that you both walk to now. Survive…and you will see how they show their faces."


	5. The Capitol at Dawn

_**A/N: Big thanks to RFD for some helpful suggestions via PM. Also, in this chapter – once again, the Capitol won't exactly look like the one out of the books/movies. Just to clear up that question ahead of time.**_

* * *

After a restless night of sleep, I woke up a hard, tiled floor. Green ceramic stretched out in front of me, with a hard, concrete wall reaching up at least twelve feet in the air. This wasn't the train I was on any more…no, I was somewhere else.

A body laid on the floor in front of me, cloaked in a brown robe. I couldn't make out who it was, but it didn't matter._ Something_ in my mind told me it didn't matter…that I had bigger objectives in mind, that I had come to punish _someone_ who had wounded me and everything around me.

But what?

_No matter. Do what you came to do. No hesitation_.

I pushed myself off the floor, turning my head and looking back down a long corridor as wide as at least ten men. The hall stretched for a hundred meters or more, the ceiling twenty meters above me. At the end, a morass of metal tendrils and silver cables snaked their way into a black, shiny arch, connected to the concrete walls via two onyx spokes at its base. Three spikes jutted out at angles from the high ceiling, all pointing towards the arch's top.

What was this place?

I looked down at my hand. I hadn't noticed it before, but I gripped a gray metal remote in my right hand, my thumb hovering over a trigger. I had no idea what it was…but something, _something_, told me to pull it.

_Pull it. Do it. Pull the trigger. Cross over. Finish what you started. _

I obeyed. As soon as I hit the trigger, the lights high above flickered and a low hum rumbled out from the arch. The spokes glowed, cracking with red lightning that jumped from their tips into the arch. A single, tiny point of light emerged in the center of the arch, expanding rapidly into a jagged circle. Light poured out from the aperture, nearly blinding me.

I smiled. _This was the time_.

The time to do…what?

* * *

"Gah!"

I woke up in a cold sweat, my hands grasping at silk bedsheets. I was back on the train headed to the Capitol, back in my ornate bedroom filled with luxury. I looked around, checking to make sure everything was normal, pushing open the cabin window's curtains and glancing outside. Rocky mountains greeted my gaze, brown and crisp in the early morning light.

No hall. No arch. No light. _What a strange dream…it felt so real._

"The hell is going on with me," I moaned, shoving my face into a pillow. "Cannot be going crazy now."

I glanced over at my sprained wrist – _figures_. The one thing I would have been happy to leave in that dream is still here and still hurts to move. If the Capitol people couldn't fix that up, I'd be starting out these Games with a serious disadvantage. Not good.

I quickly changed, tossing on a brown shirt and opening my cabin's door – running right into Shiva.

"Perhaps if you dream so loudly," she said, her eyes still covered by that same brown cloak from the day before. "You should avoid dreaming."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes with my good hand. "The hell are you doin' outside my room, anyway? Ain't like I'm running away or anything."

"Don't be foolish," Shiva replied curtly, waving me to join her. "Come. You must understand what awaits at the Capitol."

"What awaits?" I asked, following her down the velvet-lined hall towards the rear of the train car. "I'm pretty sure I know that – a bunch of people going crazy over the Games, then I'm chucked into 'em. What's more than that? And tell me this, if you're gonna drag me around and mentor me: What's with you? What's with the whole sneaky business, talking in riddles and telling stories?"

"Riddles," she scoffed, opening the door to the next train car and ushering me through. "Only to your addled mind."

"Well, 'addled' it is, then."

"Thus too small to understand."

"That ain't an answer."

"You want an answer?" she turned to me, pointing a bony finger into my chest. "I have walked the dark places of this nation, seen its dark corners and moments. I understand things that few others on this Earth do. With age and experience comes insight, and I have been around far longer than any in the districts. I have seen what they have not, learned what they cannot. Citizens of the districts are blinded by their station. In the Capitol, they are blinded by belief. Knowledge – _my_ knowledge – is a rare commodity in this world. I am not one of _you_ – one who belongs in the districts, one who _associates_ with them. Perhaps if you win, you will join me…and you will understand, as well."

"Don't count on it," I said.

"We will see. Come. We need privacy."

As I followed Shiva into the rearmost car of the train, I wondered exactly who I was listening to. Was Shiva really just some victor who shied away from the public eye – or was she something more? Her words pointed to some other explanation. Suddenly, that "fountain of youth" rumor didn't seem so far-fetched. What else was she hiding beneath that robe?

The rearmost car is a glass-walled and –roofed enclosure, offering up a full, clear view of the land we rush by. Yellow grass fields fly by, left behind at two hundred kilometers an hour. Plush furniture lay scattered out around the car, allowing guests to recline and relax while gazing upon the landscape. I settled down on one couch, resting my wrist on the arm while propping my feet up.

"The Capitol," Shiva said, sitting down in a nearby chair with ramrod-straight posture. "Is not like what you know."

"Obviously."

"More than just its grandeur. The city's people have been gutted. They are no more than shadows now, lost in the culture and faith the tyrant has spread. My advice to you? Do not speak to them. Do not interact with them unless you absolutely must – and that includes your escort. Rely on Matthias and I if you need help or have questions. The Capitol is a corrupting influence. It will bring you down in the Games – and more – if you seek answers from its denizens."

"Well, I wasn't trying to play question-and-answer with 'em," I said. "Are you talking about the stylists, and stuff? I know a little about that."

"You'll be subjected to their hands once we debark in a few hours," she replied. "Do not get to know them. They are pawns in these Games. Meaningless. Focusing on them is one less moment you have to focus on your objective – survival. That is all that matters now, and that is all that matters until you have won."

"You're really into this," I laughed slightly, rubbing my hand along my chin. "Is there a reason you think I'm some sort of master at the Games? Look, those kids from the volunteer districts…they're way bigger than me. I'm just some kid from a dusty district with a bad hand. Nothin' special. Just like everyone else who ain't a volunteer."

"Hm," Shiva said, the corners of her thin mouth turning up in a smile. "Perhaps."

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

"Each and every one of us has a part to play. If this is a world destined to end in fire, than every human is, as you so eloquently put it, 'special'."

A chill ran down my spine: "I don't get ya'."

"Later. Go and clean yourself. You reek of the district."

I thought over Shiva's words as I showered in my cabin. I understood her advice – after all, the Capitol was _much_ different from District 10. I wasn't one to go running around trying to make friends anyway, least of all with the rich socialites of Panem's central city. If they all worshipped Snow, all the worse. I was better off sticking to myself. At least they had good food, and plenty of it – that was all I needed from these Capitol types. I could use some meat on my bones before the Games. The volunteers certainly had me beat there.

What did she mean by the rest, however? What did she really say when she spoke of a "world destined to end in fire?" Whatever her words meant, Shiva knew something nobody else did. I couldn't tell if she'd be a great mentor…or a route straight to my death.

Better play it safe.

My allies were dwindling. I didn't think I needed actual allies in the arena, but I needed _someone_, at least one person, who I could bounce ideas off of. I didn't know enough about Matthias to fully trust him yet, which left me with just one person…one person who I had already slighted.

Odessa.

I waited for the girl outside her room until she had finished getting dressed and cleaning herself up. She gave me a confused and suspicious express before trying to shoulder past me, but I cut her off. Maybe she was right: Maybe I did need someone. Maybe that someone was her.

She was the best I had, at any rate.

"Hey, can we talk?" I asked.

"What do _you_ want?" she asked.

"Look," I said, glancing down at the ground. _This'll be uncomfortable_. "I hate saying I'm sorry, but we got off to a bad start yesterday. I don't know if I can trust our mentors, and I sure as hell can't trust the Capitol. I know you're young and not exactly champion material here, but neither am I. Compared to the kids from 1 and 2, I'm a runt – most of us from the other districts are. You're probably right when you say neither of us have a chance. So, I came to, uh…"

"Apologize?"

"Yeah, that."

Odessa glanced up at me, her expression torn between distrust and sympathy: "You spit on me yesterday Nomad, and now you're trying to be friends. I don't know what to make of you. Why don't we get through whatever today has in store and we can talk about it before training tomorrow, huh? If you're still sincere after a day, then I'll believe you were just angry and confused yesterday and I'll consider your offer. Until then, let's just go our separate ways."

"Fine, fine," I stepped back, raising my hands. "Let's do that."

She sighed, brushing past me and headed for the lounge car. The girl had a better heart than me, that was for sure. I wouldn't be so willing to forgive. Maybe I'd been too harsh on her yesterday, considering her "cannon fodder" and "bait". Who knew? Maybe she'd beat the odds. She had about the same odds I did, at least.

Odessa reminded me of a kinder and more sensitive Cheyenne, in a way. The girl seemed like a landowner's kid: She carried herself in the same way my friend in the district did, not with shoulders slumped and head down like so many in the Ward, but tall and dignified. Odessa didn't seem as shallow as Cheyenne – I had the hunch my friend had been using my friendship to one day weasel her way into the underground activity of the district such as the Stink, which wasn't welcoming of most landowners. Understandable: There was little landowner children could do besides follow the path their parents laid out for them, and Cheyenne's family was anything but permissive. Rebellious thoughts and the Stink ran hand-in-hand.

_Odessa at the Stink_, I thought. _That'd just be strange._ Still, I didn't need to team up with a fellow disgruntled resident of the Ward or a similar place to get help in the Games. If Odessa was an answer, even a minor one, then so be it.

_If nothing else, it'll piss Shiva off if you team up with her_, I thought. That was promising. What that woman had against Odessa, I didn't know. _Someone_ had made her that way.

_Unless it's about you. She seems to know plenty about you, weirdly enough._

I shook off my thoughts, heading off to the dining car to eat breakfast before we arrived at the Capitol. Matthias already was there, along with Odessa and a tired-looking Hecuba. Matthias was in the middle of buttering a piece of bread, speaking slowly to my co-tribute as I walked in.

"And – ah, join us," he looked up at me, a smile radiating across his face. Perhaps I could trust _him_ as a mentor, at least. "Breakfast shouldn't be passed up. You'll need the energy today."

"Stylists are that bad?" I asked, settling down and pulling a plate of meat closer. "I mean, I figured they were _bad_…"

"Oh, they are vicious," Matthias laughed. "If your clothes don't match up just right, they rain down fire."

Odessa and I laughed at his remark, but my eye caught something else outside the window. Something tall and white reached high into the sky, some sort of monument of man. I knew what it was at once – the Capitol. No one else could build something like that.

"Ah," Matthias caught my eye, glancing out the window alongside me. "Our first view of our home for the next week. I'm always torn between awe and dismay over the sight."

"What's that tower?" I asked. A giant white building, thin and long, stretched for at least a kilometer into the sky, reaching into the low cloud cover over the white buildings of the sprawling city. We were still far away from the Capitol, but even here, I couldn't help but feel shocked at its size.

"A memorial," Matthias said. "You never see it in the district footage, since they like to keep the President's history under wraps outside of the Capitol. It's a monument dedicated to his late granddaughter, who died thirteen years ago in the attack Shiva spoke of last night. Snow has spent a lot of time and money on public works since then. That is only one of many monuments around the city. We'll pass by another just before we reach the station."

"It's so big," Odessa breathed, putting down her breakfast and watching the Capitol bloom before us. "How do they have all these people?"

"District 10's a big district, but nowhere near the size of the central city," Matthias said. "It's the heart of Panem. Oh, I figure you'll see a great many new things here before you go off to the arena. Take it in while you can. We should all cherish the moments to learn."

The Capitol was enormous. Its sprawl reached out in every direction, bound by a blue lake and waterfall at one end and rocky mountains at another. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of buildings dotted the city, with many reaching high into the sky. Elevated rails ran between the buildings, and I could just make out smaller trains running along them.

As we approached, the other monument Matthias had spoken of came into view. A giant limestone arch reached high above the train tracks, stretching out for dozens of meters on either side. A great pillar stood off to the side of the arch, and I could just make out the words written on it as we sped by.

THE LIGHT OF MAN WILL CLAIM THE SWORD AND DELIVER UNTO DARKNESS THE BEAST OF SHADOW

"What in the world…" I said, watching the pillar rush by. "Does that mean something that I ain't getting?"

"It does," Shiva's voice caught me off guard. I spun around, seeing her standing in the doorway of the dining car. "Its meaning is far beyond you now. Welcome to the Capitol."


	6. Den of Lions

I barely had time to look upon the Capitol before white-robed attendants whisked Odessa and I away, shoving us into waiting vehicles with blacked-out windows and driving us away from the train. We sat in silence during the ride, digesting our arrival before we arrived at our next destination.

Our ushers pulled us out of our vehicles, hurrying us before a giant, white, columned building. Above a giant pair of heavy oak doors, a stone inscription with twenty foot-high letters glared down at Odessa and I.

WE SERVE, SO TO ABSOLVE OUR PAST

"Huh," I said, glancing up at the inscription. "Can they say 'You are ours' any clearer?"

"Sure. They Reaped us," Odessa murmured.

_Good point_, I thought wryly, following Odessa inside the building. My Games began within.

A team of bizarrely-dressed stylists worked me over for the next six hours inside the chilly hallways and sterile air of the building, molding my appearance from head to toe to their liking. I took Shiva's advice throughout the ordeal, staying quiet and letting them go about their work. I doubted they'd have much to chat about with me, anyway: Their conversations centered around new technologies, social events, and acquaintances who they had or hadn't physically engaged with. I got the feeling that my experiences around the Ward and the Stink would have only confused the high-strung canaries who flicked their fingers over my skin as if I were a statue in need of repair.

Every time their conversation shifted to President Snow, however, I noticed something odd. The stylists' tone shifted from casual and carefree to reverential and restrained – almost as if they worshipped the man. It was just one more reason not to pay attention to these people: They were caught up in some other world entirely, completely opposite from the isolated sphere of District 10. I wouldn't understand them if I tried.

My head stylist, a woman named Aura, picked over and prodded me for two hours after my first team was finished. She spoke of costume design and the like for the honorary tribute parade to kick off the Games that night, but I was looking ahead. I'd meet the other tributes that night – my competitors, my rivals, yet each of them (or most of them, at least) twenty-three other children tossed into the same situation as I. Should I have hated them as soon as I saw them? Pitied them? Ignored them completely and focused on myself?

_No matter, _a voice in my head spoke up. _They'll be dead soon. They already are dead…in another time, another place._

Heh. That was the Shiva in me speaking. One day around that woman and I already was hearing her voice inside my head. She was the mysterious sort, but she did have a way with words, I gave her that. It was an unnatural way…a _foreign_ way. Definitely not the District 10 way, in any case.

_Spend enough time in the Capitol, and maybe that's how you turn out,_ I thought. _From the way those stylists were revering Snow in between talking about their clothes, anybody normal would go mad here_. _If I win, I'll have to remember not to get all strange._

As the evening arrived, I found myself dressed in an unsightly brown costume that Aura had explained was supposed to "shine and be one with the wind of District 10." By my eyes, it looked more like the _dust_ of District 10, but it _was_ just a costume. I didn't put much stake in the parade, anyway. Sponsors were the least of my concerns, and besides – would sponsors have _really_ cared so much about what stylists did when they considered sponsoring tributes? That was quite a poor method of making decisions, in my opinion. _Then again, if my stylists were any sign..._

Odessa's stylists had dressed her in a similar brown garb and had sprinkled so much makeup on her face that she barely looked twelve any more. The girl looked exhausted as we took the elevator down to the garage floor of the building, plucking at her costume as our stylists chatted idly behind us.

"If it's any help," I whispered to her with a smile. "You look ridiculous."

"At least I have company," she said.

I had to give it to Odessa. The more she shed her "young and vulnerable" personality she'd put on full display back on the Reaping, the more I warmed up to her. Hell, the girl even had a sense of humor. I could live with that.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a cavernous, brightly-lit hall. Two giant, shiny, black doors loomed over the space at the end of the hall. A line of twelve chariots, each pulled by a pair of strong horses, ran the length of the hall. Other costumed people – Odessa and I's fellow tributes – walked about like so many scattered ants, each tiny compared to the size of this place.

"Look up there," Odessa pointed above the doors. "Who do you think Catherine Snow is?"

I glanced up to a sign atop the doors that read, "CATHERINE SNOW MEMORIAL BOULEVARD". I never knew the giant avenue that ran to the tribute Training Center had an official name, but there it was for all eyes to see. Somehow, I didn't think that fact was broadcast to the districts.

"Shiva said the President's granddaughter died in that attack she spoke about last night," I said. "Maybe that was her. Or a wife or something, who knows."

"Must've really loved her," Odessa said.

"Like that man doesn't have enough other things to keep him busy."

"That's really nice of you, Nomad."

"What? You feel sorry for the guy? He's the leader of the country. I'll feel sorry for someone who deserves it. Snow has anything he wants."

"Not a family, apparently."

_I guess I have something in common with the man, then_. _Funny_.

I scouted out some of the other tributes as our stylists pushed us towards our chariot. The boy from District 1, Fafnir, was even bigger in person than he looked on television. He easily outweighed any other kid in the place by twenty pounds – but that was what living in District 1 got one. Clearly he'd eaten well, although what his upbringing had done to his brain was another matter. The kid stood by his chariot, glancing cautiously up at anyone near him while picking at his fingers. His physique intimidated, but his mannerisms suggested something else – like he wasn't eager to be in the Games, but nervous.

It was a far cry from the violence I'd seen from him during the Reaping recap. Had something happened? Had that been an act that he'd been unable to keep up?

Either way, the boy from District 2 had all of the confidence of a well-trained combatant. The lanky, bald Makhai watched Fafnir with an expression torn between amusement and cunning. I had a feeling who'd be leading the traditional tribute alliance of Districts 1, 2, and 4 this year.

I didn't have long to check out my fellow tributes, however. Aura ushered me onto the chariot alongside Odessa, telling us nothing more than to "look confident and proud". _Great advice._

With a rumble, the black doors shuddered to a start. Orange light poured in as the entrance opened a crack.

"Well," Odessa said next to me. "Here we go."

Our horses lurched forward, the chariot shaking beneath my feet. I grabbed Odessa's shoulder for support, letting go after a moment following an exchange of awkward glances. Our chariot strolled through the doors after a minute, and I was thrown into the midst of the Capitol.

Hundreds of towering buildings surrounded me, built of every shape and size imaginable. Brilliant bright lights shined in dozens of colors, shrouding the night sky in a light show of epic proportions. Crimson and gold banners sporting the eagle of the Capitol showed off a patriotic spirit for everyone watching the event. Thousands of strange faces stared at me from the sides of the street, laughing, cheering, applauding, and even yawning. They were thousands of spectators in the stands alongside the street who saw the Games as nothing more than a diversion, a sport to keep them satisfied and occupied. Their faces, plastered in bright color and shrouded with makeup, surgical alterations, and worse, told the story: This was the highlight of their lives. This was what they waited for.

_No wonder Snow can make them worship at his feet_, I thought. _These people are desperate to cling to something, whether it's a leader or even an annual festival like this. How different is that from the people back home in the district, clinging to things like the Stink when there's nothing else in their lives? How different are these people from me…I, who cling to my self-reliance?_

I shook off my thoughts. Look proud and confident, right? This wasn't the time for deep thinking, but to stick out my chin, pull my shoulders back, and grit my teeth until I finished this thing.

Unfortunately, there was no way I could've competed with the best-looking tributes. The girls from the wealthiest districts dazzled with smiles and sex appeal, while I could only show off the thin body of someone who'd called the streets of District 10 home. I might've been decent-looking compared to many of the residents of the Ward back home, but I wasn't anything compared to the glitz and glamour of Districts 1, 2, 4, and 5 and the attention they commanded from the crowd.

The audience's reaction showed as much. Their cheering died down from a roar to a polite applause the longer the parade lasted, until District 12's tributes earned only a tepid approval from the Capitol's onlookers.

One man turned that around. As our chariots moved into the circle at the end of the avenue, a lone figure dressed in a white cloak stepped out into the night, perched high above us on an alcove atop the Training Center. The crowd immediately responded with glee to the point of ecstasy, exploding in cheering and shouting. The man raised his arms skyward, and I caught a look of his face – Snow.

Two others joined him – an older-looking man in a gray robe and a tall, gaunt woman in an armored suit of black. Snow commanded the spotlight, however. Even away from the television screens, he was still larger than life.

"Our people," his voice boomed as he stretched an arm in front of him. He looked down at the circle – down at _us_ – reaching a hand lower as if inviting us to join him. "Our children. We celebrate today to discover Panem's next great hero, one man or woman with the will and soul to stand among the best of mankind. Is it in you, tributes? It is in each of your hearts…you need but only embrace it."

"With the world of darkness around us, it is fitting we celebrate this event in our great city – our beacon of light in an age of shadow. For what is the Capitol, if not a shining city upon a hill amidst a den of lions? We share our light with you, tributes. May the greatest of you rise with the spirit of our kind. Happy Hunger Games, all."

As Snow speaks, I get the feeling that someone's watching me. My eyes trailed away from the President and towards the man in the gray robe. It was too far away to tell, but I couldn't shake the sense that he was staring right at me.

I looked away. I didn't even know who that man on Snow's right _was_, and it was better not to think about it. Odds on I'd never even see him again. He was probably some dignitary or high-ranking social figure.

_Or something more…_

I gripped my injured wrist reflexively, its throbbing taking me away from thinking about the Capitol's many faces. I had my own things to worry about, and as the chariot rumbled off towards the open Training Center garage, I looked about my fellow tributes. Medea and Freyr, the girls from Districts 1 and 2, had been moved to tears by Snow's short opening. _Of course_. They probably worshipped him in those districts as well – why not, when he provided more than enough for them to get by?

The chariots moved into the massive garage of the Training Center, and district mentors and escorts stood about, ready to receive and congratulate their tributes. I spotted Shiva and Matthias near one wall, but before I could think about stepping off to meet them, I noticed another figure walking in through a side door in the garage.

He was a massive man, larger than any other person in the garage and then some, with a bald head and wearing a loose, ragged shirt. His most noticeable features, however, were the deep, jagged scars that ran across his skin like canyons. They looked impossible, as if they'd ripped out muscle and tissue – yet still the man lived, despite the deep ruts that criss-crossed his face, arms, and more.

It was hard to believe he was only seventeen, like I. He was Typhon – last year's victor from District 2.

Strangely, Typhon didn't move to receive Freyr and Makhai. Instead, he turned straight towards Shiva, his expression confused, his movements stilted.

"You," he breathed, his baritone voice thick, dark, and throaty. "I have seen your face."

Shiva returned an arrogant frown, her arms crossed. I wondered how Typhon even _saw_ her face, considering the hood on her robe concealed her eyes, as Shiva replied, "I would certainly hope so, beast. I have walked these lands far longer than you."

"No," Typhon pointed his index finger at her chest. "No, I know your face. But why? Why can't I remember why I know your face? It is lost in my head, caught up in forgotten thoughts…you are not from that district, no. You are from my past. You…did something to me. Something wrong."

"Is that so?" Shiva asked without moving a muscle, her voice leveled and even as Typhon ranted. "Then where in your past am I from?"

"I don't _know_," he snarled. "But I know it is wrong. This isn't your place, your time. I –"

He turned his face to me, his dull, dead eyes meeting my gaze. Typhon's snarl turned into confusion, his eyes widening.

"That face," he said, his voice softening and losing his anger. "I know that face. I have seen it, felt it…lived it."

Odessa took a step away from me, glancing up at me cautiously as I stared back at Typhon. What was this guy up to? Was he another deluded victor, already poisoned by success after just a year? Or was something worse – something _wrong_ – going on in his head? Everyone in Panem had seen Shiva, the oldest living victor in the country, but what did Typhon mean when he accused her of all these things?

He turned back towards Shiva: "Stay away from me! Why are you in my head?"

"Take your time, beast," Shiva replied. "I have plenty of time myself to wait for you to understand and remember why you are here."

Typhon snarled at her, stepping away and hurrying towards his district's party. Several others across the Training Center garage watched him scamper away, eyeing us carefully.

_Great_, I thought. _Just the kind of attention I didn't need_.

As I looked back over at Shiva, however, I noticed she didn't look shaken at all from the confrontation. She looked pleased, her lips turned ever so slightly up in a smile.

She knew something about the deranged victor from District 2, and I couldn't help but think that not everything Typhon had said had been insane ranting.


	7. The Lone Wolf Passes

Shiva wouldn't speak about her confrontation with Typhon for the rest of the night – nor would she tell me about why he'd called me out. My face? He'd never seen me before. The victor from District 2 had never even stepped foot in District 10, apart from his Victory Tour six months ago. How would he know me?

_Impossible_.

I spent the rest of the night in confusion, warding out my opulent new surroundings as I thought about what the other tributes would think now. I didn't much care about what the two from District 2 would think, but no doubt I had a target on my back. Typhon's little rant had drawn all sorts of attention on me, and come training the next day, I figured I'd have at least _one_ question from someone else about what had gone down in the Training Center garage.

A dreamless night of sleep couldn't wipe my anxiety away. I never worried about the things I could control, but this…for some strange reason, Typhon's confrontation had unnerved me. Why hadn't I cared about appearances before, but one crazed victor's rant had pushed me to sitting in my bed, cradling my head in my hands?

Odessa had certainly noticed.

My district-mate eyed me carefully as we boarded the elevator to descend into training the next day. We were dressed in the same black-and-yellow jumpsuits, each sporting a stylized tan "10" on the shoulder. Odessa smelled distinctly flowery, an impression that wasn't hurt by the rose-like band holding her hair up. It was a definite improvement over the sweat and grease I was used to sniffing back in District 10 if nothing else, but the smell overpowered anything else nearby.

I figured she'd gone a little overboard with the multitude of shiny shower controls I'd noticed when bathing that morning. Admittedly, I'd been briefly tempted to test out all the buttons and nifty tech gadgets in my room as well, but dwelling on Typhon had left me to spend much more time staring out my window and brooding.

"Is last night going to be a problem for us?" she piped up as soon as the elevator doors closed behind us, cutting us off from our mentor team and starting our day of training.

"Why'd that be a problem?" I said gruffly, staring off at the blue elevator walls as the lift slowly rumbled down to the basement.

"Well, with that victor calling you out…"

"I don't know the guy."

"He seemed to know you."

"He _seemed_ crazy."

"The way Shiva talked to him," Odessa said. Why couldn't she just let the thing go? "She certainly seemed to know him."

"Look," I said, turning to her and steeling my expression. "I don't know nothin' 'bout that guy. I don't know nothin' 'bout District 2, and I sure as hell don't know nothin' 'bout Shiva. If you really want answers, I ain't got 'em. You can go chat with that chilly kid from 2. I bet he'd love to talk your ear off."

She frowned at me and turned away. I had the feeling that wouldn't be the end of that conversation.

The doors to the elevator opened slowly, revealing a second pair of doors leading into the gymnasium. Inscribed in large, black letters on the steel read, WHERE WE WORK.

"Charming," I scoffed.

The second doors opened, revealing a yawning maw of training stations, equipment, weapons, and tributes. Glistening swords and sharp-tipped spears hung from black racks arranged at trainer-staffed locales around the massive gym. Others offered up fake trees and wooden poles to test out knots and fires, with still others supplied with leafy plants and insect models designed to gauge a tribute's knowledge of poisonous creatures and edible vegetation.

A dozen or so of the other tributes stood arranged in a semi-circle in the center of the room, all adorned in similar black-and-yellow jumpsuits and positioned about a bulky Capitol man. The Capitolian twirled a baton in between his puffy fingers, raising a thick, yellow eyebrow at Odessa and I as we joined the circle. Makhai from District 2 appraised us – _me_, really – with a questioning glance and a cold grin. In the white light of the gym, his high cheekbones came across as dangerous and sinister.

No doubt he had questions.

The rest of the tributes filed in soon after Odessa and I, with most looking tired or shell-shocked. Many probably hadn't slept in their first night in the Capitol, awed by the attention, the lights, and the crowds. The central city was a far cry from the districts.

The Capitol man introduced himself in illustrious manner as Tiber, the head trainer who'd oversee us over the next three days. He prattled on about rules and regulations regarding training, most of which I ignored. The pause was a good time to match the faces of my fellow tributes with districts and judge just who looked to be a threat.

The two from 7 would be a problem, no doubt. Neither Palici nor Echo looked impressive in any one way, but both were eighteen and both bore enough muscle and build not to lack for strength. The volunteers from 2 and 1 naturally would be tough outs, but besides those six, I wasn't impressed by many of the others. Much of the rest of the field was built like me: Underfed and bred for anything but a competition of combat and survival.

Tiber finished up after his long-winded speech, and most of the tributes fanned out to various stations to begin. I had other ideas: In order to know what I was going up against, I would wait and watch for a bit. I leaned up against a wall, eying brutish Fafnir from District 1 as the boy sauntered off to a station equipped with axes of all sizes. He walked with the confidence of a man well-trained for the Games, but I saw something unnatural in his eyes. It was fear…the look of a cowed animal. For being the biggest tribute in the gym, Fafnir sure wasn't the most confident.

My fixation on the boy distracted me from someone else, however – someone who had taken notice of me.

"Nomad, is it not?" a cold, flat, monotone voice drawled. "I can't forget it now. Not after what happened yesterday. I am, admittedly, perplexed."

I glanced over to my right. Makhai stood there with his thumbs hooked in his belt, his dead eyes wandering across the gym. Fafnir glanced up at him and immediately looked away, shuffling off to the axe station with downcast shoulders.

"What an uninspiring band of misfits," Makhai said, raising his chin. "But you…you interest me. Not for anything you _are_, or any aura you give off – those are no more than any other runt here. But your run-in with my mentor, how he seemingly knew you…well, it piqued my attention. Tell me…how are you, a regular of District 10, acquainted with the victor of the 67th Games? Hardly coincidence."

"You think I know the guy?" I laughed. This kid didn't strike me as anything special, even if Fafnir looked to be terrified of him. "He's your mentor. Why don't you go spend some quality time with him and ask him yourself?"

"And I would have," Makhai replied, still not meeting my gaze. "Had Typhon not spent all of last night in his room, babbling about this and that. I don't know how you unnerved a victor, but you did. I want to know what you're hiding."

"Hiding?" I scoffed. "Well, I'm quite clearly hiding a deadly set of particular skills. No, I don't have a freakin' clue how your mentor knows me. I don't know anything about the guy. Why don't you tell me this: What's with all his scars? Why's he so…strange? The guy's clearly got issues in the head."

"I suggest _you_ ask him yourself," Makhai remarked. "No one knew him before he entered the Games. He had no family, no acquaintances, no friends, no history…and yet he won the Games, easily, might I add. Almost seems like…providence. There is an alien quality about him. It seems I have mistaken that in you, as well."

The boy turned to me, his dead eyes finally meeting mine with a cold stare: "But it is no matter. If you are just another commoner, than I will walk over your cooling body like I will the others. It seems that is my lot – to follow in Typhon's footsteps. Good day."

I spat on the ground after him as Makhai left for the swords station and the two tributes from District 4. The man thought himself some sort of predestined champion. I wouldn't be sad to see him knocked off in the arena. More than a dozen frightened tributes wandering about this gym, and the guy with the best chances saw the Games as little more than a coronation ceremony written in blood.

His description of Typhon interested me far more. No history, no family…that sounded awfully familiar.

_Nah. Coincidence._

Makhai wasn't the only one interested in chatting, however. After a half-hour of watching tributes struggle and succeed at various stations, a tall, dark-skinned girl with frazzled black hair jogged up to me, a twig from the fire-making station still stuck in her curls. She was athletically-built, tall, and limber, and despite her thin frame from a life of never having enough to eat, she still looked stronger than at least half of the other tributes around the gym.

I remembered her from the Reapings as one who stood out. Atalanta, from District 6 – that was her.

"Not interested in training?" she said as she walked up, her voice tough and leathery. "I've seen you just standing here the whole time."

"Call it a different strategy," I said, folding my arms across my chest and staring off at the fire-making station. Palici and Echo had quickly built up a bonfire of logs, no doubt something learned from their forested home. "Do your tactics involve talking to people? Doesn't really seem like training either."

"Just curious."

"Well, there's a saying that curiosity killed the rat."

"Cat."

"Whatever. You get it."

"Look," Atalanta said, running a hand through her hair. "I get what this training stuff is about. How much are any of us gonna learn in just two days, plus a day of private sessions? You don't learn how to shoot an arrow or master sword-fighting in that time. The Gamesmakers have shied away from letting starvation and nature kill people in recent Games anyway, so all these other stations…they're bunk. But there's something we can learn. Teams have been popular in the last few Games, and they've always done well. Those lone-wolf types? They get killed off early. Now I'm not a fan of getting all emotional in the Games, but even I'm smart enough to see what works."

"Teams?" I laughed. "That would explain why last year's winner was that same lone-wolf type who mowed through his competition like a hungry steer, right?"

"Exception to the rule."

"Right. Listen, Atalanta – yeah, I know your name – teams aren't my thing. I ain't lookin' to take care of a bunch of others."

"Oh?" she asked sarcastically, her voice dripping with doubt. "You're gonna take care of me?"

"Wasn't planning on it?"

"I don't need _care_, Nomad – yeah, I know _your_ name, too. I'm just smart enough to see the patterns that cropped up over the last few Games. Teams have done well. They've survived a lot longer than the bloodbath at the beginning. Now, if you want to think you're some kind of sole survivor, I guess that's your prerogative. I thought you might have been the interesting sort, just watching everyone…guess I was off."

_Shit._ "Wait, wait..."

Atalanta looked over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow expectantly. I wasn't one for relying on others, but I'd be damned if I let her challenge me and just walk away.

"Your, uh…plan, here," I said sheepishly. "What's your whole alliance strategy?"

"Find who can survive," she said simply, shrugging. "Keep that whole volunteer alliance that forms like clockwork on the move. Don't let them get comfortable. Harass them. Stay moving. I'm not going to sit around and let them hunt me. So _now_ you're interested? Why shouldn't I be worried that…whatever you did to hurt your hand there…won't slow _me_ down?"

I rubbed a hand over my face. _I'm going to regret this: _"Listen…obviously you came to me for a reason. If you're trying to stake out a group to piss on that guy from District 2, that's all fine by me. He's already made a bad impression."

She smirked: "Saw you talking to him. Fun conversation?"

"Oh, loads."

Atalanta rubbed her chin, squinting at me: "You sound like you're holding something back."

I sighed, glancing off at the knot-tying station. Odessa stood there with one of the forgettable tributes from District 12, struggling and failing to master some sort of rope work. I didn't owe the girl anything. She hadn't done anything for me. She'd only been Reaped alongside me…she was only my district partner. Nothing more.

Ah, forget it: "So…there's this girl from my district. She's nothing special physically, but she seems smart and on the ball. I haven't really understood her yet, but I'm thinking she has a decent chance – at least, decent compared to what my district usually pumps out."

Atalanta smiled at me wryly: "So are _you_ the one who's going to get emotional?"

"That's pushin' it."

She laughed, "C'mon, then. Let's go talk to her, and I'll see what kind of girl she is."

So be it. I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.


End file.
